Deprivation House (3 page)

“It's pretty extreme. Why do you think ATAC came up with something so out there?” I asked.

“Because they needed to get us on a reality TV show,” Joe answered. “Those shows love extreme. Brothers separated as wee infants. One rich. One poor. I bet the producers ate that up with a spoon. I bet they think they'll get tons of drama out of us. Maybe they even think you'll try to beat me up—because I grew up with all the luxuries you never had.”

“Have you ever considered the possibility that you watch too much TV?” I asked.

“Have you ever considered the possibility that you don't watch enough?” Joe shot back. “You didn't even know who Ripley Lansing is—and she's at the center of our case.”

He had a point. “You said you thought there were a lot of people who would want her dead. Why?”

“So many reasons,” Joe answered. “She's stolen boyfriends. She's gotten tons of people fired—everyone from waiters, to a backup singer in her dad's band, to an airline pilot. She's always breaking cameras when people try and take pictures of her. If we googled ‘I want Ripley Lansing dead' we'd get
enough suspects to keep us working for years.”

“At least the note narrowed it down a little. The person who wrote the death threat only wants Ripley dead if she wins the contest money,” I reminded him.

“So I'm thinkin' that puts the other people in the contest at the top of the suspect list,” said Joe.

“Whoever they are. And whatever the contest turns out to be.” All missions start out with a lot of unknowns. But this one had more than usual.

Joe checked our plane tickets. “We'll find out tomorrow. We're flying out in the morning.”

The first bell rang. “Right after school we need to strategize on what to tell Mom and Aunt Trudy,” I said. Dad, of course, would already know the real deal, since he founded ATAC and everything.

I actually think Mom and Aunt Trudy would be cool with our missions. They'd worry about the danger, yeah. But they would get how important what we do is. They'd get that sometimes there are situations where teenagers are the best undercover operatives possible. But ATAC rules require absolute secrecy, so we have to keep Mom and Aunt T out of the loop.

“No can do,” Joe answered. “Right after school I have to do a little shopping.” He showed me the envelope full of cash from ATAC.

“Is there some special gear we need?” I asked.

“I'm going undercover as a rich boy. I need to look the part.” Joe grinned. “The first piece of equipment I need is a pair of Diesel sunglasses.”

I stared at him. “The ones you were drooling over at the mall? The ones that were almost three hundred dollars?”

“Authentic cover can make or break a mission, you know that.” Joe slapped me on the shoulder. “Dude, those sunglasses could save our lives!”

“I don't think going on the show is a good idea, boys,” Mom told us at dinner. “You've already missed a number of school days this year, and we're not even halfway through.”

Mom always has the facts. Maybe it's because she spends so much time in libraries. She works in one, in the reference section.

“I agree,” Aunt Trudy said. “Those shows are death traps. People have gotten burned, bitten by snakes . . . I know someone lost a little toe, but I don't remember how. I'm sure that somebody is going to die on one of them soon, right in front of all the people watching at home.”

“Aunt T, come on. All the contestants are teenagers. The producers are going to make extra sure everything we do is safe,” Joe answered. “And it's
me and Frank. You know we can take care of ourselves.”

“Losers, losers, losers,” Playback added from the kitchen. Our parrot seems to think he should have a part in every conversation. “Merry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!”

Dad was the only one staying out of the discussion—for now. Joe and I are always telling him that we want to handle things ourselves, the way any other ATAC agents would have to. Agents whose father didn't start the agency. I think because we say that so much, sometimes he enjoys watching us sweat it out a little.

“Even if you don't die, they'll make you eat something horrible,” Aunt Trudy went on. “Like worms. Then you'll come back with . . . with worms. Or parasites. Or some other nasty thing.”

I looked over at Mom. “Can we go back to the school issue for a minute?”

She nodded.

“Joe and I have started designing an experiment around the experience of living in the house. We haven't worked out all the details, because we don't know what the specifics of the contest will be. We're definitely going to act as if we come from different socioeconomic backgrounds to see how that effects the judging. And we plan to come up with a few
hypotheses on how the other people involved will behave under pressure.” That last part was actually entirely true. “Our science and social studies teachers have given us the go-ahead to use the project to get class credit.”

“And our English teachers are on board if we keep a journal every day and keep up on the reading. Plus we'll definitely get the assignments for everything else,” Joe jumped in. “Even the principal thinks it's cool that the two of us could be on TV representing Bayport. Although we aren't exactly going to be ourselves. We're doing that socio-eco thing.”

“I wish we knew more details,” said Dad.

I couldn't decide if he was trying to make us sweat some more, or just trying to keep up his own cover of reasonable, concerned father who has no idea ATAC even exists.

“A million dollars could pay for lots o' college,” Joe wheedled.

“True,” Mom answered. She looked over at Dad. One of those looks that has a whole conversation in it. He gave a small nod. She gave in. “As long as you don't fall behind in school,” she added.

“Great!” Joe was on his feet, gathering up dishes—even though no one had quite finished eating. “We're going to bring home the college money for sure,”
he said over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen.

I picked up some empty plates and followed him. “You know we can't keep the money even if we win. We're not actually contestants. We're undercover,” I reminded Joe, keeping my voice soft.

“Doesn't matter. It's only fair that if we win, we really get the money,” Joe insisted.

“How do you figure?” I asked.

“Because if we get killed while we're undercover, we're really going to be dead.”

He had a point.

I
adjusted my new sunglasses and stared at the huge wooden gate. Behind it lay the villa. I felt kind of like I'd stepped into the beginning of the
Willy Wonka
movie. A bunch of other kids and I were standing around waiting to be admitted into a sort of magical world.

I hadn't gotten a chance to suss out all the other golden-ticket holders yet. I'd shared a limo from the airport with my long-lost bro, Frank Dooley, a guy named Bobby T, and a girl who wouldn't say her name—or anything else. I'm talking not one word. Silent Girl just stared out the window the whole way here.

Bobby T talked enough for two people, though. He's a famous blogger. Well, he says he's famous. I've never heard of him. But he claims that Worldview Pictures paid serious dough to option his blog so they could make a movie out of it. The option ran out before the movie got made, but he's hoping they'll renew the option and unload another dump truck of cash on him.

It looks like he's spent a big chunk of the cash he already got on hair product. For starters, his hair is mostly blue. And it stands out in all these different directions. It has a finger-in-a-light-socket thing going. That takes some serious mousse or pomade or gel. I know that from an undercover op.

FRANK

Frank here. The undercover op was as a student at Bayport High. His undercover identity: Joe Hardy.

JOE

Out, Frank.

Like I was saying, we were all standing in front of this massive gate. We couldn't see anything of the villa, because there was a wall around the place. While we were waiting for the gate to open, I noticed everybody kept shooting looks at Ripley Lansing. Even Frank—who barely knew who she was.

She was definitely worth looking at. She had super-straight, long, dark brown hair and ice blue eyes. And she had on a short dress, like the one in the clip that was part of our ATAC mission disc. Her legs were long and tan and basically awesome.

One of the guys I hadn't met pointed his camera phone at her. I was sure she was going to grab it and stomp on it, the way she supposedly did anytime anyone tried to take pictures of her.

Here it comes,
I thought, as I saw her hands clench and the muscles in her neck tighten. But then she tossed her hair and gave a big smile. Huh.

“It's opening,” Frank said, pulling my attention away from Ripley. We all had to back up as the tall gate swung wide. A couple of cameramen circled around us to get our reactions as it did.

“Welcome!” a woman in a tight dark blue suit with matching dark blue shoes called out. Her hair was really blond, almost white, and her lipstick was very red. “I'm Veronica Wilmont, and I'll be your host—or maybe headmistress is a better term—while you're living here. I hope you'll consider me a friend, and—”

“I didn't come here to make friends,” interrupted a wrestler-looking guy with a skull and crossbones shaved into the back of his short hair.

Veronica raised one eyebrow and looked at him. It was a look that could make icicles grow on your
nose hairs. “James Sittenfeld,” she finally said.

“That's me,” the guy answered, throwing his arms wide.

“I remember your audition tape very well,” Veronica told him. “I thought your so-called van-surfing was immature and incredibly dangerous—for yourself and for everyone on the road.” She smoothed her already perfectly smooth hair. Her nails were very red too, and so wet-looking, I half expected the polish to wipe off in her hair. Not really, but you know what I mean.

“I didn't want you on the show, but I was overruled by the producers,” Veronica continued. “They thought you'd be
entertaining.
”

“I'll try to be entertaining when I crush everyone and walk away with the million.” James winked at her. Veronica did not appear entertained.

This guy really wanted to win. But how bad? Bad enough to send Ripley that death threat?